i don't care about how, i want to know why
by iwillseduceyouwithmyweirdness
Summary: Sherlock is returning to 221 B, he is told that John had moved on but he is not so sure. (sorry about the awful description, I am not very good at them!)
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters! And also this is my first ever fanfic and I really hope that it is ok. I would love to know your opinions on what I have written too. I might do a bit of John's POV as well.

It has been three years since I died. Mycroft hates my post John self. So do I. To be honest, I am not coping all that well but I would never show that to Mycroft. I can't. He would deem it too dangerous for me to dismantle Moriarty's web in 'that state' as he calls it. I couldn't have that. I need to get back to John as soon as possible. He is what is fuelling my work.

I only have about 2 more people to dispose of before I can get back to John. I can't wait. Mycroft is out hunting for them at the minute. Thank god he's out! I am going crazy cooped up in here, living in fear of someone finding that I am still alive and going after my friends. My John…

I haven't had a case in a year and a half. I had a boring case a little while ago which Mycroft managed to sneak me in on. Just a serial killer though, nothing too interesting. he wasn't that brilliant either.

Then I get it. The text I have been waiting for.

'**You're safe. They're all gone.'**

Excitement pulses through me. I can see John again! Immediately I run to get my coat before I hear the sound of Mycroft's car. Oh great! Now I will have to go through all the social niceties of thanking him for helping.

'Sherlock…' Mycroft's voice rang through the cavernous hall way. 'Sherlock, come down here. We need to talk.'

_Oh great! Even more time to waste before I can see my John! _I walk back down stairs and find Mycroft in the drawing room. He looks tired, fed up, ill, but so happy. _Probably because he doesn't have to live with me anymore._ I muse.

We talk for a while and it ends with Mycroft telling me that John has moved on… moved on… the words rang in my ears. My John had moved on. I have died every day without him and I expected it to be the same for him. Life without John was hell. He was my Blogger, my oasis of calm in a world of stimulus and danger. He had saved my life on a number of occasions and not just when he knew it.

It was time to see how he had moved on.


	2. Chapter 2

I was in the cab, thinking… I used to do this with John sat next to me, listening to my thoughts. He understood me. Would this time away make a difference to our friendship? Had he made a better life without me? If he had, and did not want me back, I would not be able to face it. I would have to back to the rooftop. Life without John was not life. I merely existed. I could just about stand living a life where John believed I was dead because I could still go back to him. But a life where John knew I was alive and hated me for it… No. I couldn't stand that.

I had been over this reunion in my head many times. Far too many. Every eventuality I played out seemed to end horrifically. What if John didn't want me back? _Mycroft planted doubt in my mind. He has made me doubt my John. _I scowled as this thought crossed my mind. This doubt had been there long before my conversation with my dear brother earlier this evening but I wouldn't admit it.

The cab stopped outside 221 B Backer Street. Adrenaline pumped through my veins. My whole body shook with the fear of what would await me on the other side of that door. Would John want me back? I was expecting a punch or two; I had prepared myself for that. I almost wanted him to punch me. The pain might make this more real; stop me having to feel emotions.

I hesitantly stepped out of the cab and paid the driver. To my relief, the locks had not been changed. I didn't think that properly braking in to my old flat would be a good start. I slipped upstairs and took in my old haunt.

The room was as if I had left yesterday. Dust coated everything in sight, apart from my skull. Had John been talking to my skull, just as I had done? Was he really that in need of a friend that he had sunken down to my low level of talking to a skull? This was not the man I knew. But then again I suppose, I was not the man he knew, not any more.

John was sat in his chair staring into space. He had not registered my appearance which I was glad for. It gave me a chance to deduce him. He was thin. Very thin. His shoes had not been polished in months; his hair was long and unruly; he had grown a moustache (it didn't suit him); he had been having violent and frequent night mares and bouts of post-traumatic stress (this was apparent from the shacking hands and the tired eyes). John, just like me, had been through hell and back.

'My dear Watson,' I spoke clearly and in a surprisingly loud voice. 'I had no idea that you would be so affected.' John had turned and now stared, fearful, at my appearance.


	3. Chapter 3

John's POV

I was sat, staring out of the window. I was thinking about Sherlock. When did I not think about him? When I was at work, I just thought about how we had once roamed these halls together, how he had jumped off this very building… I wanted to be close to him. That was the only reason I went to work: to be where he had once been. It was also one of the only reasons that I stayed in 221 B. The other was that Mycroft had sworn to pay for the rent. That was the least he could do after giving all of that information about Sherlock to Moriarty. I had refused to speak to him. I yelled far too much and it resulted in me punching him and slamming the door in his face. I think he let me vent my anger out on him, he could have stopped me numerous times and he didn't. I don't regret what I did. I hate that he pays my rent. I want to be free of him but that won't happen, he seems to have a knack for knowing when I am feeling like running, just leaving all of my possessions and leaving. He always comes round and convinces me to stay (I more agree just to be rid of him but I am always true to my word… I guess that's the solider in me…). I feel like running at the minute. I don't like being cooped up in the flat all day. When I was with Sherlock we used to run all over the city. I miss those days. I miss being part of something good. But most of all, I miss him.

'My dear Watson,' said the deep, smooth, well remembered voice. 'I had no idea that you would be so affected.'

I whorled around in my chair and saw, to my amazement, Sherlock Holmes.

Was I imagining things again? I had done this before, right after the fall. I had seen him everywhere, in patents I treated, in the supermarket, even in the flat. I knew he wasn't really there all of those times. But this time... this time it felt different.

Was I dreaming? I slept a lot on my days off. When I was asleep, I could see and talk to my friend again. Sometimes he doesn't look like he did, sometimes, nor did I, but he is always mad and brilliant! He always was the man I knew. But the man in front of me, although he had Sherlock's body, was not quite the same man that I knew before. What was different about today?

After what seemed like hours, or even days, of me just taking in the man in front of me, breathing in that distinctive Sherlock smell, the apparition spoke. 'John.' It said. 'Please, say something.'

'You're dead.' I stated.

'No.' he replied. Something was different. This was not my perfect, dream Sherlock. This Sherlock had some of the flaws that I had discarded. His deducing stare was more penetrating, and was now turned on me. It was like he could read my train of thoughts.

I stood up and walked across the room until I was about 2 foot away from Sherlock. I need to know whether he was real or not. There was only one way to do this, I decided. So, without further thought, I punched him, square on the nose. He crumpled slightly but then regained his composure.

A little moan escaped his lips as he took his hand down, away from his face and saw blood on it. I was quite good at punching. Sherlock had seen me do it on more than one occasion and had been on the receiving end once. He seemed real enough. But that just made me angrier.

'John…' he said again. There was pain and true emotion in his voice this time.

'THREE YEARS SHERLOCK!' I screamed. The words seemed to echo around my skull and pulse through my veins. Three years! 'IT'S BEEN THREE YEARS, SHERLOCK!' this was more than I could take. He seemed to be deducing me even more. What if I didn't want to have that cold, unfeeling stare thrust upon me anymore?

With this thought I punched Sherlock again, this time, on the cheek. Another whimper escaped his lips but he stood tall. 'John.' He said again. 'John, listen to me. I understand what you're going through, just let me explain!' He sounded panicked.

'NO! You don't Sherlock!' The rage was taking over now. 'NO! Sherlock. You're not the one who had to bury your best friend! You're not the one who had to listen to all the degradery shit that people were making up about you! You're not the one who had to deal with the consequences of your actions. So, NO! You don't understand!'

I whipped around and saw my solution. Grabbing Sherlock firmly by the wrist, I dragged him out the door and slammed it behind him. 'AND DON'T COME BACK!' I screamed. It was final now. Sherlock Holmes was alive, but I would not see him again. Did I even want to see him again? I asked myself. The truthful answer was yes. Of course I did! He was my best friend. He was my only friend.

I regretted what I had done but I couldn't do anything about it now. I would have to wait until tomorrow because there was a rage inside me that still burned with one intention: to hurt Sherlock Holmes. I would feel better in the morning, when my head was clear.

**Sorry about this chapter, I didn't know quite how to word it so it a bit odd. I would love to know what you though so please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's POV

Mycroft grinned stupidly as I got back into the car. Bloody Mycroft… 'That didn't go quite to plan.' I muttered.

'No.' He was almost gloating now. He wasn't happy though, he seemed to practically pity me.

We drove home in silence. I just couldn't stop thinking about poor John and all that I had put him through. It was not fair. He had had to bury enough of his friends during the war. Making him bury me was hell. My mind was tearing its self apart. What have I done? How could I live with myself after putting him through all of that?

It felt like Mycroft had read my thoughts. 'We will try again tomorrow dear brother. Have a little faith.' As he said this, the true enormity of what I had done hit me. I had broken, completely broken, my best friend, my john…

I had been forced to sleep in Mycroft's room last night. He didn't trust me to be alone. I wouldn't trust myself to be alone… I thought.

Mycroft walked in to the bedroom, where I had been pacing for the last hour and a half, with some toast and some orange juice. How did he expect me to eat with the weight of my conscience weighing this heavily upon my shoulders? I scowled and batted the food away.

'He slept at your grave 23 times this month. He was there last night, after he threw you out.' Mycroft whispered. He was always so much more threatening when he was quiet. 'We need a plan of action. I don't want to see John getting hurt again.'

'Why didn't you tell me?' I demanded. 'Why didn't you say: "oh, and by the way, John really isn't coping. He goes and talks to your grave and that blasted skull every day. He blames himself." WHY!' I knew that I had crossed a line by yelling but I did not care.

'What good would that have done, Sherlock?' Mycroft was exceedingly calm. Too calm for my liking. 'If I had said that, told you what he was really like, you would not have been able to come back from the "dead" all of a sudden. It would put you both in far too much danger. I had expected resistance when you had first visited John. I needed to make sure that neither he, nor you, would hurt yourselves during your first meeting. So I arranged for you to go and see him. I expected you to be punched. But I wanted to give you both a chance to console on your own. That didn't work, obviously, so I will sort it out and arrange a meeting with him. You will both be able to make friends again.'

I had stopped pacing now and come to stand face to face with my brother (him drawing himself up to his full height). 'You said that he had moved on. The man I saw tonight had NOT moved on. In fact he had done the complete opposite!'

'It was another complication to deal with. I had to tell you that so that you didn't exaggerate on your deductions.' EXAGERATE!? I never exaggerate any of my deductions!

'We are meeting him and Mrs Hudson in Speedy's at 11. And don't you dare say that that is too far away! John needs time.' Mycroft's voice was dangerous and low so I knew not to argue. But I still had a whole 7 hours to wait to see my John again.

**Well! Tonight is the last night before series 3! I must admit that it is a little bitter sweet, there will be no more theories, we will have no more post Reichenbach feels, no more fan arts, not more fics… but I must say that it has been great to go crazy with you all and I must ask you all to never change one bit! Thank you all!**


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